From Clove's Perspective
by WellDoneNeville
Summary: Reaping Day in District 2 from Clove's point of view.


Okay, so I tried to write out how I think Reaping Day would go down over in District 2 if you were Clove. Pardon any major mistakes or anything - I haven't read the series in a while, plus I'm pretty forgetful, and Wikipedia can only give a person so much reliable information.

_Anyways_...

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><p>I open my eyes and stifle a yawn, stretching my arms wide as I clamber out of bed. It must be early morning of Reaping Day, but my Mother is already up and alert in the kitchen, cooking, I assume. My feet barely touch the cold tiles as I glide towards the scent of breakfast, of bacon and eggs or pancakes and syrup, or of fruits and juice. Whichever I choose. Because it's Reaping Day, after-all, and, if chosen, I could become her pride and joy.<p>

"Clove," my Mother says, as I come into view. She turns to face me and tries to smile, but I know she will be disappointed should I not be chosen. And volunteering is no option. "Happy Reaping."

I incline my head. "Thank you, Mother. The same to you."

She serves me my meal, a series of pancakes with cream curled around on top, and I immediately begin eating. She watches me with knitted eyebrows, her arms plastered across her chest, and I wonder what's going on in her mind. Perhaps she's thinking of the many ways she can punish me should I not be chosen. At this thought, my back starts to throb, reminding me terribly of last years whipping.

Here in District 2, the masonry district, where it is an honor to be selected for the Hunger Games. Where you are punished for not being chosen. Where you are frowned upon should you volunteer. I stuff my mouth with a pancake, my Mother still eying my suspiciously, and think of how much I despise this district.

But, on Reaping Day, this is the one day where everyone doesn't wish to rip at each others throats. Where fighting and arguments cease, and a form of unity begins. The parents seem to form a circle, and share their disciplinary acts. The elderly place bets on who they think will be chosen, judging on appearance, on reaction, on what they know of our personalities. And we? We hope that our name's called out, thinking of the respect we'd gain upon returning. Thinking of the love we'd earn from our parents. Thinking of how safe we'd be.

But then you remember the whole fighting-for-survival-in-the-Arena thing, and you start to debate with yourself which one you'd rather.

Before I realise it, my fork is scraping against an empty plate. My Mother leans forward and puts her hands on the table, towering over me, just as she does every other Reaping Day once my meal is finished. Her long, brown hair falls in curls against her shoulders, her piercing, blue eyes stare into mine. She opens her mouth and speaks in her usual-Reaping Day voice, where she tries to sound gentle, but only sounds even more powerful.

"You know what happens if you don't get called out, my _dear_," she puts stress on the word, and my back throbs even more.

I nod. "Y-Yes, Mother. I do."

"Good. Now go train."

She turns on her heels and walks over to the counter, where she continues to cook food for my Father. I get out of my seat, pushing the chair in behind me, and make my way down the hallway once more. I'm used to her threats on Reaping Day morning, used to her telling me to go train and not looking back once, and, since I _am_ used to it, I don't get so emotional. I was built to be strong. And I am strong. I am.

Suddenly my Father steps out of his room, cutting me off. I incline my head respectfully. "Father," I squeak.

"Clove," he responds, putting one of his beefy hands on my head. He tousles my hair and smiles faintly. He is much nicer than my Mother, much more hesitant to punish me should my name not be called out. "Happy Reaping."

The corners of my lips twitch upwards in a smile. "Thank you. The same to you."

He lets me slide around him, and I slowly enter my room. I trudge over to my wardrobe and pick through my things, searching desperately for my typical training gear: a black-and-red tracksuit, with the family name embroidered on the back. I quickly change, pull my long hair into a bun, then leave in a rush.

The streets of District 2 are usually calm and quiet, but today they're loud with Reaping Day-hustle-and-bustle. The elders are yelling out for placement of bets; a crowd of people are taking advantage of the specials in the stalls and shops; there are a few parents close together, probably discussing ways of hurting their children when their name isn't called out. I look at my feet and pick up my pace. I just want this day to be over.

The training centre is in the middle of the district, concealed by rock. I slip through the door-way unnoticed, signing a sheet at the front desk to say that I'm here, and then I head towards the actual fighting area. I'm not surprised at how many kids are here, fighting against dummies and practicing with weapons.

I notice one boy. He stands with two daggers in his hands, sweat gleaming on his forehead. His blond hair is spiked back, probably ready for Reaping already, and there are a few scratches on his biceps from not being called out already. A straw dummy is in front of him, and a pile of its contents is on the ground. He breathes heavy, then drops the daggers.

I catch his gaze as he turns on his heels. He nods his head towards the dummy. "Have fun."

The kids around us look almost frightened. A few have stumbled backwards and are standing against the walls. I let my lips play a smug grin. "I dunno, looks like you could still use some practice."

Everyone around us steps back once more. In a matter of seconds, I could be dead.

Except he laughs. A hardy sound that booms in all of our ears. "Happy Reaping," he says, before walking passed me. I head towards the dummy without a second thought, dropping to my knees and scooping up his daggers. Dry blood coats the tip of the blade, and the hilt is golden in colour. I pick up the other, which is almost identical to the first, and turn them around in my fingers.

In a matter of minutes, I have the dummy destroyed, the straw scattered around the floor. I grin, stretching my arms. A few of my audience steps back even more, but the others stare in shock. I turn on my heels and put my hands on my waist, my chest rising and falling fast. "I expect an applause next time."

I throw the first dagger towards a girl with blonde hair. She yelps and ducks, just as the blade slices the air above her head. The people around her scamper. I toss the other one over my shoulder and head towards the archery area.

It's much emptier here, with only three kids practicing with bows and arrows. I watch from a distance as a blue-haired boy narrowly misses his target, then throws his short-bow to the side and walks off, muttering swears underneath his breath. I glide over towards the thrown-away bow and pick it up, sliding it through my fingers. The wood is alien in my grasp, much unlike the steel hilt of a dagger, and I feel at loss. But I know, should I be called out in Reaping, that I have to know how to defend myself with whatever weapon I can get my hands on.

I notch an arrow, pointing it towards the red bulls-eye of a target. I pull back the drawstring, then realise, letting the arrow whiz through the air. It stabs into the white of the target, and I narrow my eyes. In my head, I hear my Mother's voice - "_not good enough"_ - and suddenly my back begins to hurt once more.

I continue to practice until later in the day, where a shrill-voiced woman comes bounding around, announcing that it's only an hour from Reaping. I drop the bow and arrow that I'm using and walk off, my face sweaty and flushed.

Getting home takes no longer than five minutes, and by the time I return, my Mother has me straight into the shower. I wash quickly, and, when I get into my bedroom, a dress lays across my sheets. I clamber into it, and then I go to my Mother for my hair to be done. She carefully dries and then curls it, and, once I'm ready, I take a moment to be vain.

My white dress cuts off below my knees in ruffles, and a black ribbon is tied tightly beneath my breast. My long, dark-brown hair falls in curls down my shoulders, trailing down my back and cutting off around my ribs. My eyelashes are longer and more prominent, and my lips are coloured in glossy pink.

Mother puts her hand on my shoulder and looks at her own reflection, and her expression is placid. To me, I am beautiful. Amazing, even. But, to my Mother, I am barely worthy of being her daughter. I am a disgrace. A failure.

I purse my lips and look away. "Almost time," I mutter.

"Yes, you're right. Probably best we leave now," my Mother turns and calls down the hallway, "_Honey_, we're leaving now."

My Father steps out, dressed in his best suit. He smiles at me, and wraps his arm around my Mother's shoulders. Typically, they despise each other. But today is Reaping Day. Today they love each other. Today is their chance to prove to the whole of District 2 that I might not have been a total mistake.

Already, most of District 2 is crowded around the stage. My Mother pushes me towards my age-group with the threat of what would come if I'm not called out. My Father half-heartedly joins in, but pats me on the back when my Mother is looking away.

"Happy Reaping," he says gently as I begin to walk away.

_Sure_, I think, _Very happy._

I join a bunch of other girls who are dressed almost as nice as I am. Each look nervous, and mutter "good luck", or "happy Reaping" in my ears as they walk by. I try my best to look calm, but inside I'm frightened. I don't know which I'd rather: be called out to enter the Hunger Games, or be forced to suffer the same _consequences_ until I'm no longer eligible to enter.

Before I can come to my conclusion, a loud screeching fills our ears. Then it dies down, and a man begins to speak. I look over the crowd of bobbing heads to see our escort, Dalfius Wesyd, take to the stage. He is tall, with pale-green skin, a bulbous mustache, and thick, beefy muscles. His very being reeks of the Capitol's streets.

"Welcome, District 2, to the honorary Reaping! I hope, of course, that the odds are _ever_ in your favour!" he bellows.

I roll my eyes. Each year he says the same thing. He welcomes us, tries to be funny, then introduces the Mayor, who then steps forward and rambles on about the founding of Panem, about how great an opportunity the Hunger Games are to prove ourselves, and how proud we should be for our large range of victors.

I count them in my mind: _one, two, three, four, five_. Each stand with frowns on their faces, their eyes sweeping across the crowd. They're analyzing us, picking out which one is most likely to win, which ones would die in a heartbeat, and which ones would cry. The most recent victor, Enobaria, lets her lips curl into a smile. She has the _honor_ to train us to our deaths if we're called out. And, by that, I mean she's our mentor.

The Mayor finishes his speech and steps back, letting Dalfius speak once more. He yells, "Happy Reaping!", and then begins to speak about how happy and proud he is to be here announcing the names for the possible victors for the seventy-fourth Hunger Games. I tune out until I hear him say, "And now to introduce to you your District 2 tributes!"

I gulp, my heart thudding loudly in my chest. My palms are suddenly sweaty, and I find myself having a faint spazz attack. The girls around me seem so much calmer and relaxed, but then I realise that it's for the cameras zooming around, filming all of our reactions. So I try to regain posture and straighten up, but my heart is still hammering. I'm still barely able to keep standing. The colour has drained from my face and I feel so numb.

Then I notice the first few faces turning around to face me. Followed by a few more. And then, before I know it, _everyone_'s looking at me.

That's when I realise that my name's been called out. That _I'm_ the District 2 female tribute. That I'm not going to be punished tonight for having rotten luck. No, I'm just going to die in a few days because of it.

A girl behind me pushes me forward. I feel myself grow more distant, falling further away from everything. I feel myself about to fall, except I'm not. I'm somehow walking towards the stage, but it's not my mind controlling me. I'm not doing anything. I'm watching from afar as someone else that looks just like me takes to the stage, shakes Dalfius's hand, then stands tall beside Enobaria.

Then I fight the tears that are coming. And I feel like such an idiot for being on the brink of crying. I've been trained for so long. I've convinced myself that I'm strong. And yet I'm falling to pieces in front of everyone. I'm going to let my parents down, going to let _everyone_ down, going to become a complete laughing stock.

"Enobaria, what do you think?" asks Dalfius.

I don't look at her. I don't look at him. I just look out towards my Mother and Father, who are both looking at me, beaming with pride. They're not looking at anyone else, either, but then I remember that it was Enobaria who volunteered a few years prior, and of course neither would want to catch her eye. I look down at my feet, feeling my cheeks go red.

"I've seen her 'round town," says Enobaria in my ear, "She seems... interesting."

A blatant lie, I think, since _I've_ never seen _her_ around town. But, as the camera zooms onto me, I try my best to smile and look smug, as if I've heard it all before. Dalfius claps me on the back then speaks into the microphone. I take a deep breathe and wear a placid mask. _I will not break down, I will not break down_.

Then, as if on cue, everyone begins to applaud. My Mother receives a few congratulations from her friends, and I ball my fists. _Sure_, I think, _Congratulate her as her only daughter heads towards her death_. The only thing I can hope for right now is help. The only thing I need more than anything is a friend. No, not a friend, but someone skilled in survival. I can't do this. Not alone.

"And now, it is my greatest pleasure to announce the male tribute!"

I hold my breath. Who else will be headed toward death today?

Dalfius stretches out towards the clear bowl in-front of him, which is stacked high with slips of people's names. I close my eyes. _Come on, come on, come on_.

He plucks a slip from the bowl, holds it up inches away from his face, then speaks in a loud voice that causes the microphone to screech.

"Axel Gatsby!"

And, in this moment, I realise that I'm screwed. That I'll die within the first few minutes of being in the Games. That, compared to this, I'd probably rather be whipped for an hour and then be looked at with disappointment for the rest of my life. Sure, I could probably deal with that. Probably...

Axel stumbles out his line, wide-eyed. His shirt is untucked, his pants too short, and he looks ridiculous. I almost feel bad for him as he starts to clamber forward, but then someone else steps out of line, putting his hand on Axel's shoulder.

I'm watching from a distance once more, watching as a boy with blond hair and large muscles is speaking clearly and confidently, the few words that will make him forever frowned upon by District 2. I want to scream at him. I want to tell him that the whole honor thing is a lie. But there's something about his placid expression that makes me think that he already knows this. That he's volunteering as tribute for some completely different reason.

Then I realise something else. This boy, the person I am probably going to rely on for my own survival, is the one from this morning. Who I had practically called weak. Who probably already hates me for my comment. But is volunteering for something other than honor. But what? What else, besides honor, is there?

"I volunteer as tribute," he says coolly.

For a moment, I envy his courage. But then the whole of District 2 starts yelling, calling him an attention-seeker and all sorts, and anything that I had felt washes away. He doesn't seem to care, though, and Axel turns around to look at him. I briefly catch what he says, something like "_thank you_", and then he rushes off.

Dalfius looks at the boy with knitted eyebrows then grins. "A volunteer, huh?" he says, surprised. "Haven't had one of them in a while." I look at Enobaria, who has gone a bright shade of red. "Well then, come on up!"

The boy climbs up the steps to the stage with great elegance, and now I realise how handsome he looks. His hair is blond and slicked back, showing his face. His eyes are brown and oval-shaped, and he looks almost arrogant. But I assume that's his mask. And, behind that mask, is someone frightened. Someone that isn't sure what he's doing. And I think I'd feel safer not knowing that.

"And what's your name, son?" Dalfius asks.

I can feel the whole of Panem watching, waiting for the name of the first volunteer from District 2 since the sixty-second Games. I find myself leaning forward, too, wanting to know the name of my mysterious fellow tribute. My potential friend. My possible savior. Or my probable enemy.

"Cato," he says sternly. "My name is Cato."


End file.
